Repentance
by RenShep
Summary: The Inquisitor is captured and held by Red Templars. The crew comes to her rescue. Cullen faces his past. Graphic depictions of the Rite of Tranquility from the perspective of a Templar.


They found her chained naked in the basement of a long abandoned manor in the Emerald Graves. It had taken days to track her down since the Red Templars took her, ten long, near sleepless days. When they'd finally found the location of the group who had taken her he insisted he be part of the effort to rescue her, though Leliana and Josephine both thought his time would be better served keeping their forces organized. They were probably correct, but he'd gone just the same.

They'd been faced with forty or more former Templars, most twisted into monstrosities, others looking remarkably human despite their taint. Though he'd wanted to capture at least one still alive for questioning, none would be taken, and so they'd cut them down to a man. Sampson had not been among them, though there had been signs he'd been present at the estate.

Revenge would have to wait.

He wasn't the one who found her, he wasn't certain who had. Varric perhaps, who'd told him she'd been found, directing him to the hidden staircase, stopping him with his hand before he could move towards her.

"I'm sorry," the dwarf had muttered, not meeting his eye.

He rushed down the stairs, finding Cassandra and Dorian bent over her figure.

She'd lost a tremendous amount of weight during the ten days she'd been held captive, her wrists were raw from the manacles she'd been forced to wear during that time. Her back a maze of lash marks, the bottoms of her feet as well. An arm was clearly broken, several fingers, too. But what stood out above and all else was a single scar, the shape of a sun, burned deeply into her forehead.

At the sight of it he fell to his knees.

He'd seen tranquil before, of course, in the circle he had spent many hours among them. He assigned them duties, had watched them moving about their day, and ignored them, much as everyone else. They didn't _feel_ anything, so there was little to concern him.

And yet, as she looked at him, eyes not burning with fire or crinkled with mirth, but staring listlessly, he saw it for what it truly was. The act had separated her soul, her mind her body, and left her a hollow, empty thing. Guilt overwhelmed him. He felt as though he himself had done this to her. In another life he had actively participated in such atrocities, he had followed such orders without question, without hesitation, all for what he believed to be the greater good.

After the events at Kinloch, he did so with far more fervor than any decent man would.

Of course there was no blame in her eyes as they looked at him, large and guileless and blank; there was no hatred. Neither did she flinch as Dorian set her bones, spread a foul smelling paste across her cuts and bruises or bandaged her feet. She sat shamelessly, not moving or trying and hide her nudity, no blush stealing across the high planes of her cheeks. Nothing. She simply watched, silently and impassively, until he was finished.

A simple robe was handed to her, which she stared at for a moment before it seemed to dawn on her that she should dress. She pulled it over her head, settled it around her and carefully fit the toggles in the appropriate loops. Then she stood there, waiting, he supposed, for someone to tell her what to do.

No one did. None of them had yet found their tongues.

"I am thirsty," she stated quietly, as if suddenly remembering her body had needs.

Dorian moved to assist her, handing her his skin, which she took silently. Even her very movements were less than what they had been. Her natural grace had been replaced by efficiency. She handed the skin back to him wordlessly, folding her hands in front of her and resuming her patient wait. Dorian tucked a matted lank of hair behind her ear and said something to her that Cullen could not hear. She only cocked her head at him silently.

Dorian glanced back at him, the other man's normally studied expression of amusement vanished behind a grim brow and clenched jaw.

Cassandra moved to stand beside him, he felt her hand upon his arm, "We will undo this."

Cullen felt like laughing at her and the absurd idea that she was anything but _gone_ , but no sound escaped him. It was done. Whatever hope Cassandra had was blind and foolish and would only make things harder in the end.

"There is a way," she insisted though he'd said nothing. "It can be undone."

"How?" he asked, the word sharp and bitter.

"I do not know, but it is possible and we will find the way."

He did not believe her.

The walk back to camp was near silent, save for the sound of their footsteps and the occasional clang of armor. She followed passively, did not turn her head or look beyond the path they followed. One of her hands rested on Varric's shoulder for support, on her other side Cassandra offered additional assistance. Her steps were slow, but she never complained. She said nothing, did nothing that she wasn't directed to.

He wanted to scoop her up and carry her. Though the walk wasn't short, she did not weigh much and it would have been no great feat. He'd carried her before, after the events at Haven, when they'd finally found her collapsed in the snow. But now he couldn't move to touch her, not when everything which made her who she was had been stripped from her.

Bile burned in his throat, and for the first time in months his hands shook for reasons not connected to withdrawal. He clenched them to try and quell the tremors to no avail. How badly he wanted a draught. He could almost taste the sickly bitterness on his tongue. He could almost feel the relief it would offer, both in body and in mind; the pleasant buzzing, the haze which would dull everything he was feeling. He hated that desire, hated the connection to the Order, still controlling him despite the fact that his breastplate no longer bore the Sword of Mercy.

 _Mercy._

They said the Rite was a mercy. He was told it was a kindness and he believed them despite everything he had witnessed. _Mages upon their knees, tears in their eyes, begging for death as the brand drew closer. Apprentices prostrate, fists clenched in the hem of his robes, offering thier bodies in exchange for their minds. The inevitable scream as the hot iron was pressed against their skin... and then, silence._

When they arrived at camp she was directed towards a tent, Dorian and the surgeon with her, shooing him out of the way. Servants entered and left bearing buckets of water, dumping the filthy contents out near the latrine and returning once more. Only silence came from within. She would not complain, of course, she would not cry out in pain. She would only passively submit, empty of the fire and light which made her who she was.

"There will be scars," Dorian spoke to him later, long after he'd seen to her wounds, "we can't do much about it, her wounds were left untended too long."

"It doesn't matter," he responded, his voice sounding near as empty as hers to his ears, "she won't care about them."

 _Or anything else, was left unsaid._

"I suppose not," the other man said, "but Cassandra believes we can undo this."

Cullen felt his gaze harden and he turned towards the other man, "Did she tell you that she doesn't know how? No one does. It's still only a theory. Who is to say we will succeed where others failed?" His voice held an edge of anger, but it was swallowed by the hopelessness of it all.

The mage turned to him, "We have a better chance than most. If there is a way, we're the people who will find it."

"I hope you are right," he said. _But I don't think you are._ He looked away.

Beside him Dorian spoke, "And you...are _you_ alright?"

He glanced towards him briefly, "No," he said simply, his voice tight.

He remembered the first time he had seen the Rite performed. He'd been in Kirkwall only a few weeks. Typically only a small number of people took part; a priest, one or two knights or initiates to restrain the mage and the knight who wielded the brand. In Ferelden there had been only one Knight who performed the branding, a solemn faced older man who appeared neither kind nor cruel, simply resolved. In Kirkwall this was also true, the duty regularly performed by a Ser Alrik, whom he knew little about at the time.

Meredith believed that every Templar should experience being part of the Rite for themselves to "fully understand the extent of our duties," and routinely ordered men to take the part of restraining mages. He had not been in Kirkwall a month yet when he was assigned to the task.

He and another knight, Ser Mettin, retrieved the mage in question from her cell. She'd been interred there for several days from what he'd learned. Locked away, isolated and alone. She squinted in the light from the torch when the door was opened, shying away from its brightness. She was young, could not have been more than twenty at most, very slight, and clearly very afraid.

Mettin reached for her, placing his hand on her arm and leading her out into the corridor.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, her voice quiet, gentle, afraid.

The other Templar answered her without answering, "You'll see," he said, his face grim.

"Are you going to kill me?" she asked. Mettin's only response was to tug her forward silently.

She turned to Cullen, "Am I going to die?" she asked, a tremor in her voice.

He said nothing. What was there to say?

The chamber they brought her to was small, located in the bowels of the Gallows, with no windows to let in light or air, no doors save the one they locked behind them. In the center was a wooden table, to the side large brazier, currently burning brightly while the brand was heated, filling the room with a damp heat. The moment they entered her attention was drawn to the table and she knew.

"No," she whispered. "No, no, no..." shaking her head she tried to pull away, tried to retreat. It was pointless, of course. The two of them had a good grip on her, and she'd been weakened from her imprisonment, but she fought still.

Cullen's eyes met those of the other knight, the man shook his head curtly once and tightened his grip on the girl. "Resisting will only make it worse," Mettin said, and Cullen wasn't certain if the words were meant for her ears or for his. Either way, the girl didn't seem to hear them.

He felt her power gathering, swelling, the veil thinning. Without thought he reacted, ripping her mana from her, leaving her with nothing. She slumped in their hold, the other man's eyes met his, "Well done," he said with a nod.

They lifted her onto the table. She was mercifully still dazed as they strapped her arms and legs down. Her forehead was washed to prevent infection, her hair sponged wet to keep it from moving in front of her face and catching fire. She began to rouse not long after.

"This has to be a mistake," she said softly, voice quivering; "I only.."

"Silence," Alrick said sharply.

Her skin was slick with sweat in the heat of the room. Her racing pulse was made visible against the damp skin of her neck, her breath shallow and quick.

"Please..." she begged, turning her tear stained face towards him, her eyes were large and terrified, her voice quivering, "I'll be good. I promise I'll be good." Cullen felt a pull at his conscience, but said nothing.

"You can start by being quiet, girl," Alrik's voice cut in once more.

She ignored him, her eyes still focused pleadingly on Cullen's, "I'll do anything. Anything you want. Please, ser, please... just please stop this. Please... let me go."

Alrik muttered behind them, "Shut your pretty mouth, girl, before I do it for you."

"Please, please..." she saying quietly, over and over again, each time more plaintive than the last, her eyes locked with Cullen, "please..."

"Hold her down," Alrik said, ignoring her, "Harder if you must, it gets messy if they don't keep still. Don't worry, the bruise won't matter. Better a bruise than an abomination."

Cullen looked down at looked at the girl and remembered. He remembered the mages in the circle in Ferelden looking at him with such contempt, such hate. Watched as the weakest of them split into abominations as others conjured demons and cut down his brothers and sisters in arms. He remembered his own torture at their hands, the memories hazy and sharp all at once.

His hands tightened on the girls arm and he repeated the words he had been taught, "This is a mercy."

Her expression shifted from panic to cold fear.

But still she fought against him, harder than before, digging from some newfound strength which could only come from utter desperation. Her voice failing when the heat of the iron drew near, mouth drawing back in a grimace and a low, animal sound tore from her throat. Over it the priest continued her chant, words Cullen couldn't make out over the pounding of his own heart. He tried to swallow, but found his tongue thick and dry in his mouth.

 _This was a mercy._

He felt the power rising, felt the pull at the veil, the faint smell of ozone and the bite of copper in the room suddenly waking the lyirum in his blood. The girl felt it too, and froze long enough to lock eyes with Alrik where he loomed over her.

Cullen said nothing as the iron was pressed into her skin, as the acrid stench of burning flesh filled his nostrils. Her scream was blood curdling but brief, for the moment the iron was removed she inhaled sharply and deeply, her entire body tensing and arcing off the table. Her eyes stared up at the ceiling, wide and fearful, her face contorted in horror. Seconds stretched out as her body continued to strain, breathless and still... and then she finally exhaled, the fear erased from her expression only to be replaced with... nothing.

Silence.

She stared up at him blankly before going limp as she lost consciousness.

"This one's pretty," Alrik said, reaching out to tip her unconscious face into the light. "Nice figure, too, she'll loose it a bit after the surgeon takes her womb out, and it'll leave a scar, but she won't turn to fat."

Cullen kept his face impassive. He ignored the burning at the back of his throat and the hardness at the pit of his stomach, and repeated to himself the words he had been taught. _It was a mercy._

"What had she done?" Dorian asked him quietly, bringing him back to the present.

Cullen let out a bitter laugh, "I... don't know. I never even thought to ask," he spat, loathing himself. "She'd been ordered tranquil and I assumed it was not without cause. Little did I know then that Meredith was condemning mages to it for the smallest of infractions," he fell silent.

At length he turned to the other man, sighing, defeated. "How could I take part in that... and not see what was being done? What I had become? How could I be so blind to it all?"

Dorian sat quietly for a moment before finally responding, "Most people see only what they want to see, what they want to see. They're far too afraid of the truth, even when it is looking at them in the eye."

"It's a poor excuse," he responded. In truth, he thought it no excuse at all.

"It's not an excuse," Dorian said, echoing his own thoughts, "It's just an unfortunate part of human nature. You did as you were told to do, saw what you were told to see," he shrugged, "It's something we're all guilty of, at one time or another."

He considered the other man's words, dissatisfied that he'd failed to act because of simple human nature.

They sat in silence for some time before Cullen spoke again. "If we can get her back, annul the rite," he felt his throat closing again and lowered his voice to a near whisper, "If she came back, how could I face her, knowing what was done to her. Knowing I've done that to someone else? How can I..."

 _How can I be worthy of her?_

What he had been left unsaid had somehow not gone unheard. He felt the mages hand rest on his shoulder for a moment, offering a small amount of comfort. "You realize that whatever you did before you're making up for now, yes?"

"Is it enough?"

He felt the other man's hand tighten on his shoulder. "It is for her."

Weeks later they succeeded.

Against all odds they'd succeeded.

They had failed the first few attempts, each failure felt like a weight around his neck, dragging him further down. But between Cassandra's information, Solas's unconventional knowledge and Dorian's remaining Tevinter connections they'd managed to repair the damage and restore what once was.

She was sitting up in her bed, looking tired and thin and pale, but her eyes shone with a light he never hoped to see again. She smiled when she saw him, breaking something inside him. He fell to his knees beside the bed, grasping her hand and thanking the Maker, Andraste and anyone else he could think of.

"Forgive me," he said, bowing his head against their clasped hands, clenching his eyes against the sting behind them.

"Cullen, there is nothing to forgive," she whispered, her free hand raising itself to run through the hair at the back of his head.

"I...could have been one of them."

Her hand paused for a moment before resuming her gentle stroking, "But you were not one of them."

He could not stop, his confession flowed from his lips, "There was a time I took part in it, willingly. Held mages down as they screamed and begged..."

"Cullen," she cut in, halting him, "You're a good man, you wouldn't be feeling this now if you were not. There's nothing to forgive."

He drew a deep breath, searching her face and finding nothing deceptive, "Knowing what I've done...how can you even say that?"

She smiled, "Because I know you. You've been nothing but honest and loyal and kind. What happened to me was Sampson's doing, Coryphyus's doing. You? You helped bring me back."

It could not be this easy. It should not be this easy. He did not deserve it, "The things I've done..."

She pulled at their clasped hands, forcing him to look at her. "We've _all_ done things. We all have regrets. Whoever you were before doesn't matter to me, the man you are now, the one I know, is one of the finest people I've ever met. You need to forgive yourself."

He could feel the tears streaming from his eyes but could not be bothered to wipe them away, "I do not know if I can."

She cupped his face, leaning forward until their foreheads rested against each other. "You can," she whispered, pressing her lips against his cheek. "If not for yourself… then do it for me?"

He met her gaze, shining with warmth, brimming with concern and filled with promise. The brand would forever remain on her skin, the scars would not fade, would never fade, but she was whole again. He did not deserve her forgiveness, or her; but despite the sting of tears behind his eyelids he felt his mouth returning her smile.

"For you... for you I will try."

 **Heya – so, yeah, I'm way overdue for an update to "Ser" AND "Broken". Yes, I DO plan on finishing them both (particularly Ser!) … I just need to get my life a bit more under control first. Until then, enjoy this one shot – and please, let me know what you think!**

 **Also – if you haven't done so already go ahead and check out some of my other works – because I don't self-promote enough (at all) but I probably should. Cheers!**


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